I woke up in the early hours of Easter Sunday morning. The air was filled with the sound of the dawn chorus. I haven’t heard a dawn chorus like that since we lived in the Borders. The seagulls tried to join in: a hopeless, tone-deaf cawing, coming in at all the wrong places.
Little Owl and Finch bounced out of bed for the Easter egg hunt we had laid, but Wren lay still and pale in her bed. No temperature and no cough, so not Covid-19, but Big Dreamer had to carry her around the garden wrapped in a blanket to find her Easter eggs. I didn’t want to leave her at all as I shot off to work.
The bank holiday days have been long, busy, and very hot in PPE (although I am ever thankful for it, and even more thankful that I’m not in a London ITU having to wear it for 12 hours at a time). I paused for a breather outside a patient’s house and thought you would like the view.
Back at home, after a quiet day, Wren was well on the way back to her normal vocal self, making up for lost time on her Easter eggs.